


Fitter Happier

by MarkoftheAsphodel



Category: Fire Emblem Heroes, Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Seisen no Keifu | Fire Emblem: Genealogy of the Holy War
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Co-workers, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Partners to Lovers, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2019-09-16 00:18:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16943433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarkoftheAsphodel/pseuds/MarkoftheAsphodel
Summary: A pair of detectives with a convoluted past infiltrate a planned community where the good life's been spoiled by a serial killer with a distinctive calling card and a puzzling choice in victims. Of course, Lewyn and Finn had to go undercover as a couple to pull this one off. Of course, the performance might just become a little more... authentic... over the course of the investigation. Written in response to a prompt by Etrangere: "Detective AU, Fake Dating, Finn and Lewyn"





	1. our most important spy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Etrangere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etrangere/gifts).



> Originally I was supposed to produce a summary of what I *would* hypothetically write in response to the prompt but heh, I got carried away.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lewyn arrives in town. Things are afoot. Etc.

**several years ago**

“Askr. Seriously. _Askr_.” Lewyn’s talking to himself because it’s been a two-hour drive from the airport and his boredom is stretched to its limits. “Don’t these wretched little exurbs usually get names like Arcadia or Valhalla or, er, something with vowels in it?”

He’s seen places like this before; cookie-cutter villages stamped into valleys that must’ve been paradise before the asphalt trucks showed up. A sad little collection of gated communities and overpriced condos grouped around a park where you need to show your ID to get in and a coffeeshop where everything on the menu tastes like a candy bar. He’s hard-pressed not to hate the place before it even resolves out of the wildfire haze.

Can’t start a job like this. Lewyn cranks up the radio to distract himself from how much he hates driving.

_Field Commander Cohen, he was our most important spy._  
_Wounded in the line of duty,_  
 _Parachuting acid into diplomatic cocktail parties…_

He’s still singing when he pulls up to parking meters outside the coffeeshop. It looks exactly like he expects— wood beams, the little chalkboard out front announcing the artisanal specials or whatever the fuck. Looks like a place some nondescript contractor from the military industrial complex might come to telecommute on a Friday.

_Hey babe. I’m outside the coffee bar._

_Then come in, please._

Lewyn plays it cool. Takes off his sunglasses. Walks up to the counter and gives the teenaged girl behind it a practiced smile. Doesn’t initially make eye contact with the guy at a table alone, hiding behind thick bangs and a laptop.

“The guy by the window— he’s got a tab open?”

“Yeah,” she says. She has braids and strange spaced-out-eyes, less coastal exurban and more _Children of the Corn. Village of the Damned_ , even. It fits.

Part of pulling off the job is knowing every little thing about your partner, including everything that’s not covered in a briefing.

“I’ll take a medium black coffee for me and another Irish coffee for him.”

“We don’t have any Irish whiskey,” she says— half in alarm, half as apology. She probably only knows what’s in an Irish coffee because Finn tried to order one.

“What do you have?”

The girl rattles off half a dozen sweet liqueurs and Lewyn opts for Kahlua, not because Finn likes it (he doesn’t) but because it reminds him of the rum and Coca-Cola he actually wants after belting out “Field Commander Cohen” three times in the car. Lewyn then studies the pennants and photos of some local sports teams while this would-be barista makes the drinks, because that’s what a sports writer for a new hyper-local news site ought to be doing in his first minutes in town.

“Hey, babe,” he greets Finn, who has a security-key-on-a-lanyard and smart flash drive all spread out around him like a perfectly legitimate government contractor. The best part of this is how Finn has to play along, brushing his fingers against Lewyn’s as he takes the cup, inclining his head as Lewyn gives him a _deeply_ familiar greeting before sliding into the other chair at the small table. “Playing hooky today?”

There aren’t many patronizing the coffee bar at this hour, but the three people paying attention are sure to let the rest of the silly little village of Askr know that the military-industrial-complex guy and the new sports writer are _gay as hell_.

-x-

Finn’s set up shop in one of the overpriced condos across the street from the gated park. It’s got exposed utility pipes and other details meant to give industrial chic to a place that never had any industrial base to start with. This village didn’t even exist before the aerospace industry around here cratered. Still, ridiculous as it is, Lewyn kinda likes it. He’s seen worse. There’s a common area with a big gas grill that’ll be good to hang out with the neighbors and collect information. The living room has decent acoustics.

The bedroom has one large bed.

Finn’s idea of home decor isn’t stimulating but it’s tasteful, and he’s bought Lewyn a second-hand guitar with a surprisingly sweet tone.

“Not too shabby.” Lewyn surveys the view of the park and decides it’s not half bad. “Now, does this look like the kind of place where a serial killer is liquidating people in the night?”

“Yes,” says Finn as he stands behind Lewyn, because they both know it’s _exactly_ the kind of place where people get disappeared. The killer’s weird motif of leaving a burst of white feathers at the crime scene is something they’ll need to untangle, but in the end this’ll be as stupid and sordid and disheartening as every other murder they’ve investigated.

Finn wraps an arm around Lewyn, and Lewyn leans back against his partner. Feels pretty good, if he’s being honest with himself… for once. He sure hopes the neighbors are watching.

**to be continued**


	2. soldier on the hill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lewyn settles into the apartment, brushes up on the case files... and meets the neighbors. Or suspects.

After they’ve put on a show for the benefit of the neighborhood association, Finn sits Lewyn down with everything he’s collected in the last several weeks of covert investigation— names, dates, spreadsheets and datalogs on every victim and person of interest to be found in Askr.

“It is just me or is the weirdo concentration in this town even higher than what we’re used to?” Lewyn asks as he takes note of the number of villagers whose profession Finn’s jotted down as “grifter” or worse.

“Askr does appear to be a magnet for… weirdos,” Finn replies. “Including on the village council.”

“You don’t say." Lewyn chews on the end of a pencil as he contemplates the rubes' gallery. " _Anna, 26, village manager, constantly scheming for money. Alfonse, aged 24, full-time student, some murky backstory involving a friend who’s gone missing._ ”

“ _Friend_ ,” Finn echoes. He doesn’t use airquotes. He doesn’t have to.

“Gotcha. Is Alfie’s boyfriend one of our murder-ees?”

“No, he went missing before the White Feather Killer started their game.”

“ _Sharena, aged 22, sister of Alfonse. Excessively friendly. Kiran, age not given. No known history prior to arriving in Askr. Also no gender._ Interesting.” Lewyn scans the rest of the files on the local government. “So we have two trust-fund babies, a potential scam artist looking for a jackpot, and someone who pops out of nowhere to land on the village council?”

“That’s the extent of it, yes. Why don’t you familiarize yourself with the victims while I get started on dinner?”

“I like this arrangement,” Lewyn beams. He’s already checked the fridge looking for beer and noticed that Finn had some tempting kebabs marinating in there. “But I think I’ll hold off on the horror stories until after dinner. Don’t want to lose my appetite.”

“There’s not a trace of gore to affect your digestion,” Finn says, and Lewyn knows it’s an admonition to read the damn files. “All four of them simply vanished.”

“Into a puff of white feathers.”

-x-

Lewyn finds reasons to dick around and not read the files; contemplating suspects is a hell of a lot easier for him than reading up on young lives snuffed out. He’s not into this business because he likes facing up to murders. Finn grills the kebabs out in the communal space outside, where their dinner overlaps with the couple from two condos down, a pair of preppies in their late twenties named Clive and Mathilda. Clive reminds Lewyn a little of Fred from _Scooby-Doo_ , which must make Mathilda his Daphne.

They seem pleasant enough. Lewyn rates Clive as a potential murder-ee rather than a murderer, though he mentally places a saver on Mathilda. There’s something of a clever cat about her. They do not discuss any murders over the kebabs. Clive’s eyes bulge a little when Lewyn slings an arm around Finn’s shoulders. Nothing interesting gets discussed whatsoever.

Lewyn finally gets around to reading up on the murder victims while Finn does the dishes. It’s a strange assemblage. Tobin, aged 17. Farmboy from a large family that lived in borderline poverty, had just gotten a job in Askr so he could send money home. Stahl, an unremarkable guy living an unremarkable life as a mall cop. Selena and Odin, a pair of newcomers to Askr, possibly lovers, whose car was found abandoned in a scenic area with a pile of feathers in each front seat. Jakob, a butler to a rich family in town.

“Seriously, a butler? I understand killing the mall cop, _maybe_. Who kills a butler?”

“He’s not remembered fondly by the town,” Finn says over the sound of running water. “He might have the most known enemies of anyone on that list. He’s also the reason we’re here, as the death of Miss Corrin’s dear retainer attracted attention in a way the loss of the other four did not.”

“Hard to believe a place this small could absorb the loss of five people without everyone succumbing to panic,” says Lewyn. “Well, thanks for the deep background.”

Finn doesn’t say “you’re welcome,” as deep background and data is what he gets paid for, the way Lewyn’s role in this job is directly getting people to talk. But that’ll come tomorrow. For now, Lewyn reaches for his guitar.

 _There’s a lone soldier on the hill, watching falling raindrops pour._  
_You’d never know it to look at him, but in the final shot he won the war,_  
_After losing every battle._

“That’s not how the lyrics go,” Finn says over the sound of running water.

“All you know is the Minnesota version. The New York version is where it's at,” Lewyn replies without skipping a beat.

They turn in early; on an investigation like this, every night is a weeknight. That big new bed feels as good as it looks; Lewyn stretches out on its smooth expanse while Finn runs through those Army-approved exercises that are supposed to summon sleep.

“Does that routine even work?” asks Lewyn from his position of ease.

“Sometimes.”

The bed’s so large there’s ample space between them— enough space to give them each breathing room during the course of this charade. When Lewyn wakes around three in the morning it takes a little while to notice he’s alone. Then he notices the faint line of light coming under the door and the murmur of a television set to the lowest level possible.

“Didn’t work tonight, huh?”

Lewyn rests his head on folded arms, waiting for daybreak or sleep, whichever comes around first.

**to be continued**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our boy Lewyn is enough of a Dylan fan to know the bootleg version of Blood on the Tracks by heart... and enough of a hipster to be smug about it. The song in this case is "Idiot Wind."


	3. gonna take some time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lewyn finally gets out into the field to investigate and encounters a member of the Village Council.

Askr has an awfully nice SportsPlex for so small a village. Lewyn adjusts his sunglasses as he looks over the batting cage, the track-and-field section, the outdoor pool. It all looks inviting, especially with the morning sun flattering the drought-parched foothills, which just _might_ be covered by ripened grain instead of dead grass in this gilded light. Likewise the slight haze in the blue sky _might_ be wisps of cooling fog from the distant ocean and not smoke from not-so-distant fires.

Lewyn knows exactly what he’s looking at and so he switches his attention to the slim redheaded girl running laps around the track. His mind immediately reaches for comparisons involving gazelles— she’s swift, graceful, and gives the impression of a formidable amount of strength packed into a small body. There’s also someone in baggy clothing poking around the garbage cans. Lewyn does his usual move for a vaguely sketchy situation— he takes out his notepad and pen. A smartphone doesn’t have the same aplomb.

The person hanging out with the trashcans turns out to be Kiran, who’s investigating claims that someone’s been mixing the recycling streams. They’re in a white hoodie with _Village of Askr_ printed in sparkling gold letters, so it’s not like they’re being subtle. Under the hood, Kiran has one of those “average” faces, the kind produced by blending hundreds or thousands of blandly attractive people in a computer program. They’ve got “sunkissed” skin and brown eyes and a few stray locks of dark hair visible under the hood. Every feature on its own is pleasant but the overall effect is like being confronted by a native of Uncanny Valley.

Kiran doesn’t seem real. That’s just the physical construct, though— as soon as they start talking Lewyn notices their charisma, the kind that propels both underdog sports teams and vaporware startups. Warm. Infectious. Not necessarily tethered to reality. Lewyn nods as Kiran assures him that Hinoka, the red-haired track-and-field prodigy doing laps, is Olympic-calibre.

He takes notes. THIS IS A VILLAGE OF HEROES is underscored repeatedly, with exclamation marks. More than that, to Kiran this poky bedroom town with its cookie-cutter architecture is the center of the world. A showcase for green architecture and design (a noble goal, given the sun-scorched hills and fires). A model of inclusivity. A paragon of public safety. 

Kiran says nothing of the five unsolved murders and Lewyn doesn’t ask. His questions revolve around the SportsPlex and its local stars, because that’s what he’s supposed to care about.

-x-

Lewyn gets back to the condo in the mid-afternoon after Kiran’s taken him on a Grand Tour of the SportsPlex and a couple of local ballfields to boot. He can hear a nauseatingly familiar drum roll through the door and sure enough Finn’s been putting the wireless speakers to terrible use.

_It's gonna take a lot to take me away from you  
There's nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do_

“No. No no no. We are not going to live like this, _darling_.”

Lewyn grabs the remote and silences the cheesy marimba-inflected pop. Finn doesn’t put up a fight because he _knows_ how Lewyn feels about that song and therefore _knows_ playing “Africa” on an endless, desperate loop while he works is something that has to stop when Lewyn comes home.

“I believe I’ve found a lead on the two who disappeared from the car,” Finn says into the dead air.

He holds up a tiny strip of torn paper with a phone number on it, the sort of thing stapled to telephone poles and hardware-store bulletin boards to advertise odd jobs and lost dogs.

“They were somebody’s pet,” Lewyn deadpans.

“You’ve may’ve hit closer to the mark than you know,” Finn replies. “It appears Selena and Odin embarked on a small business venture before their demise, some sort of personal concierge service.” 

“Is that a euphemism?”

“No. At least at this point I’ve no reason to think so.” If the trail of evidence gives Finn a reason to think so, they’ll deal with it then. “They offered shopping, dog-walking, mail pickup, running light errands, making reservations, that sort of thing. More to the point, their services had been accepted by two siblings of Miss Corrin Nohr, the young lady who lost her butler to the White Feather Killer.”

“So now we’ve got a possible connection between three of the five victims. That’s a good day’s work, Finn.” Lewyn takes the shred of paper and holds it between his fingers, weighing the tenuous link to two snuffed-out lives. “Think it’s a crime family?”

“I think there’s something deeply off about them.” Finn pulls up the files he’s assembled on the Nohr family. “They live in a collective of fine homes at the north end of the village. The main property is called Krakenburg after their supposed ancestral estate in Prussia.”

“Prussia? That’s already not sounding good.” Lewyn’s had some run-ins with people far too enamored of Prussia.

“Xander, the eldest son, travels often for business— mostly real estate but there may be some financial… shenanigans… underneath. He has a solid alibi for every one of the murders but then again he’s not the sort of man you’d expect to have his hands dirtied. The younger surviving son, Leo, is studying agriculture at the local university. He’s most notorious in town for his advocacy of GMOs, specifically genetically engineered tomatoes.”

“Yeah, these people sound special.”

“Out of the three daughters, Elise is still in middle school. Raised by servants, as the family patriarch is elsewhere and the various mothers of these children are all deceased. She’s on the school swim team so I expect you’ll encounter her soon.”

“Poor kid.”

“The elder daughters both live like minor royalty, running charity events and putting a good face on the family brand.” Most people would’ve had some judgement in their tone on “minor royalty”— approving or otherwise. Finn states it as unshaded fact. “Miss Corrin’s household was overseen by her late butler but she has two surviving attendants, both of them interviewed extensively at the time of Jakob’s death, neither of them helpful. Miss Camilla has a picturesque villa on the hill and a female bodyguard who’s occasionally seen and never heard.”

“In other words, the entire scene is loaded with persons of interest,” says Lewyn. “Wait, you said _surviving_ son. Were there more?”

“A baseball team’s worth at the least,” Finn replies. “One son had a fatal car accident, one daughter suffered an overdose, another daughter had a suspicious fall down the staircase, and yet another son drowned in a lily pond.”

“How… picturesque.”

“Not likely. You’ve seen drownings.” Finn closes his laptop. “Miss Camilla favors tennis as a sport and sponsored recent improvements to the public courts, so you might use that angle to catch up with her. A word of warning, though…”

“The bodyguard?” Lewyn’s idea of a female bodyguard is colored by the B-movie bad girls he used to watch on late-night public access channels. He’s picturing Miss Camilla and her attendant as something out of _The Violent Years_.

“When you encounter Miss Camilla, be careful to guard your reaction,” Finn says.

“That much of a looker, huh?” Maybe they’re more like _Charlie’s Angels_.

“In some respects.”

And he refuses to elaborate.

-x-

Lewyn’s feeling optimistic when they turn in for the night. They have leads to pursue and a plan. Tomorrow he’s going to be hunting the wild Camilla.

“Finn?” he asks into the dark.

“Mm?”

“Have you ever wondered why we have both copyright law and patent law? It’s pretty redundant, right? Like, why does Batman have to deal with the Joker _and_ the Riddler?”

“You save thoughts all day for a moment like this, don’t you.”

Finn’s enunciation make it clear this isn’t even a question.

“Had to get you back for ‘Africa.’”

Lewyn sleeps with a clean conscience that night. Clean enough, anyway.

**to be continued**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Lewyn is a hipster music snob. The Patent Law/Copyright Law conundrum line was harvested from a tech law blog I used to follow (circa the Aughts) that sadly seems to have disappeared from the Internet.
> 
> For those not familiar with The Violent Years, it's an Ed Wood-scripted film featured on MST3K about 1950s schoolgirls gone bad.


	4. actor in a plot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lewyn does his first interview with one of the Nohr siblings of interest only to have a prime suspect interrupt his day. This town can't hold two serial killers at once, can it?

Lewyn’s main trick for going undercover is taking on the persona of a space alien. Not a comic space alien from some shitty sitcom but more like what David Bowie was playing in _The Man Who Fell to Earth_. His home planet’s doomed, everyone he loved is dead or dying, and everything will go to hell if he so much as loses a contact lens. 

In other words, pretty much his real life except the space alien thing makes it tolerable somehow. So he’s totally in the headspace of Alien!Lewyn when he first faces down the amazing physical attributes of Miss Camilla of the very rich, very shady house of Nohr. He’s glad that Finn warned him, because any human with the slightest attraction to the human female breast would’ve had a reaction from what Miss Camilla has on display. Since Lewyn’s a gay space alien these days, he’s able to ignore what’s bouncing in front of his face. 

Based on what Finn said about the Nohr girls acting like royalty, Lewyn’s envisioned Miss Camilla in a proper tennis outfit, ready for strawberries and cream at Wimbledon. Instead she’s in a diaphanous lavender wrap over an obvious bikini and the sea-green drink in her hand is no Pimm’s Cup.

“When the sun is beating down on you, nothing hits the spot quite like a cold drink,” Miss Camilla says as she swishes the glass with practiced ease. She sounds too young and bright to make a proper _femme fatale_ but she’s getting there.

“Indeed,” says Lewyn. “I’m afraid I’ll have to wait until I’m off the clock for a cold one.”

Not entirely true, as he’s playing a journalist and he’s got permission to let alcohol lubricate his sources if necessary, but there’s no way in hell he’s going to be sharing drinks with this woman. When Miss Camilla asks him what he thinks of her swimsuit, Lewyn the Space Alien doesn’t react, but under his skin the heart of Lewyn the entirely human detective pounds out a drumroll of warning.

Also, Miss Camilla has that little goblin bodyguard hovering in the corner and Beruka gives off vibes like she’d be happy to dispose of Lewyn in a dark alleyway should Miss Camilla give the command. There’s no sense of 1950s pulp bad girls to savor here.

Once he gets Miss Camilla on the actual topic of her philanthropic efforts in the world of local sports, she gushes about how much she loves all the children of Askr and wanted to improve the lives of the ones who didn’t have the opportunities of Camilla and her dear siblings. Lewyn expected gushing, but the authenticity of Camilla’s outpour of goodwill surprises him a little after her attempts at calculated seduction. Miss Camilla’s got some wires crossed upstairs, he decides.

The interview ends earlier than Lewyn planned, as a young woman with cotton-candy hair bursts in with a message for Miss Camilla’s ears regarding Master Xander. Beruka allows the intrusion with a nod and a grunt and so Lewyn can only wrap things up with his best professional courtesies as Camilla disappears in a flurry of lavender chiffon and a cooed offer to meet with Lewyn again.

There’s about a quarter of her drink remaining, ice cubes melting beneath the scorching Askr sun, and Lewyn drains it almost without thinking. He knows that mess of pastel hair. He knows that grating voice. 

He’s pretty damned sure he’s already found the killer.

-x-

“Wrong MO,” says Finn the instant Lewyn breaks the news about Peri.

“Her MO is killing the hired help. Three members of the Nohr family’s hired help are missing and presumed dead.”

“ _Presumed dead_. The Killer Doll’s MO involved eviscerating her victims, not hiding them. She made an effort to spill as much blood as possible. Or, _spattery-wattery_ as I believe she put it.”

“Yeah, she was all about getting stabby.”

“Exact quote from suspect, ‘ _Bye-bye intestines_.’” Finn’s the only person Lewyn knows who can echo the Killer Doll’s speech pattern without cracking a smile as a defense against its basic horror. “Even if she’s radically changed her style after her supposed rehabilitation, the predilection for murdering hired hands doesn’t explain the murders of Tobin and Stahl. Tobin was a back-room stock boy for a mail delivery outfit.”

“Well… that’s kind of a service job.” Lewyn knows he’s reaching. “A twisted mind might possibly view a mall cop as some kind of servant. Public servant, anyway.”

“No.” Finn snaps open his laptop and then says in a less adamant tone, “I’ve thought about Stahl a lot these past few weeks.”

“Yeah? Do tell.” 

“He seemed a genuinely happy soul. Not ambitious, maybe not particularly bright, but… an innocent in the world, perhaps. He reviewed every new restaurant in Askr and liked every single one of them,” Finn says as he pulls up the archives of Stahl’s social media accounts. “He even posted a musical tribute to his favorite places.”

Finn makes Lewyn listen to Stahl’s SoundCloud account.

“He’s better at rapping than I would expect,” Lewyn says of Stahl’s celebration of Askr’s best places to chow down, giving grudging tribute where it’s due.

“I suppose it seems doubly unjust to me that someone who enjoyed his life that much is dead and we’re here investigating it,” says Finn once the music fades. 

“I don’t remember being that happy when I was his age,” Lewyn says as he glances over Finn’s shoulder at Stahl’s glowing five-star reviews of sports bars and chicken stands. “I can’t even imagine being that happy.”

He’d probably have to laser out a part of his brain, the part that dwells too much on power and justice and authority and all those who abuse it. He remembers now the time he woke before dawn wondering if the tin-pot dictator of a nearby nation had been ousted yet and what fresh hell would be unleashed if he had.

Lewyn is certain Stahl never woke from a good dream pondering the fate of any dictators. He hopes the young man’s memory will be a blessing to someone… rap music and all.

It was a catchy little number, at that. Lewyn plays half of _Infidels_ that evening to keep Stahl’s voice out of his head. He’s still not convinced by Finn’s arguments— what are the chances an an actual serial killer would be in a town ravaged by a serial killer and yet be innocent of the crimes? But whatever trap they’ll set to get Peri will, again, have to wait another day.

“Someone’s gotta take away her license to kill,” Lewyn says as he turns out the light.

**to be continued**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter quote is from Dylan's "License to Kill," a rather relevant song for these two in its grim way.
> 
> Stahl's NoA VA Sam Riegel has actually posted a surprisingly cute "rap battle" for one of the other characters that he plays, hence the idea for the rap song. Also if you played some of the FE13 DLC you might remember that Stahl and Einherjar!Finn had (very brief) dialogue exchanged in some of the battles, so Finn being especially bothered by Stahl's death is my own shout-out to this fleeting connection. I always let Stahl use Finn's Lance in FE13 because of this-- and the unnamed young man stumbling over an ancient lance in a flash-forward in my 'fic "Tir na Nog is" also meant to be Stahl.

**Author's Note:**

> Lewyn's choice of song in this is indeed an excerpt from the song "Field Commander Cohen" by, you guessed it, Leonard Cohen. Lewyn will have a lot of musical references at his disposal in this, all of them picked with intent.
> 
> 'Fic title is a Radiohead reference. Lewyn does not care for Radiohead.


End file.
